


Firsts/Seasons

by joss80



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: M/M, Male Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-19
Updated: 2012-11-19
Packaged: 2017-11-19 01:55:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/567750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joss80/pseuds/joss80
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their firsts follow the seasons (four vignettes)<br/>Originally posted June 12, 2012 on LJ</p>
            </blockquote>





	Firsts/Seasons

 

The first time Reese openly flirts with him is on a warm spring day. Reese has, of course, flirted indirectly many times before because that’s Reese and that’s how he is. But this is more overt. They are caught in an unexpected afternoon downpour while walking through a park and Reese grabs his hand and urges him toward the shelter of a tall oak tree nearby. Finch doesn’t resist. Its full foliage provides some shelter from the rain if they fit themselves just so up against the trunk, and so that’s what they do. Reese isn’t wearing a suit jacket, and if there were wet shirt contests for men he would probably have just won. Finch catches himself staring, but not before Reese notices too. Reese cracks a smile at Finch and his blue eyes have a mischievous sparkle to them.

“Is my wet shirt bothering you, Finch?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“No,” Finch replies as nonchalantly as possible, looking up, sideways, everywhere but at the man standing less than half a foot from him. It’s a personal space invasion, and Finch isn’t complaining despite being caught. He has fought his attraction to this man for a long time, and there’s nothing wrong with quietly enjoy a situation that Mother Nature has thrown them into. Then he looks down and notices that Reese is still holding his hand. Neither of them let go.

Finch decides he doesn’t mind the rain so much.

**  
The first time Reese kisses him is on a hot summer afternoon. Reese arrives at the library to find it a veritable oven and Finch at his computer dressed in a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. No shoes. Finch blushes then gestures at the wall.

“The air conditioner gave out,” he explains.

“Well, at least it’s Friday,” Reese teases, still transfixed on Finch’s casual attire. He walks closer, rolling up his sleeves and undoing an extra few buttons on his shirt as he approaches Finch. Then, seriously, “It’s a good look on you.”

“Well, don’t get too used to it,” Finch says, pushing his chair back and standing up slowly. He walks towards a bookshelf but Reese lays a hand on his bare arm and Finch pauses, looking at him. Reese pauses too, not sure of what he’s doing, but knowing what he wants to do. Finch meets his uncertain gaze full-on, almost in a challenge. Matters of the heart take time for both of them, but perhaps today it _is_ time. Their dance has run its course.

Reese leans in quickly and lightly brushes his lips over Finch’s, then pulls back. The fleeting touch sends sparks flying through Finch’s body and leaves him breathing but breathless. He wonders if John feels the same way. He meets John halfway two seconds later, lips pressing harder together, mouths opening slightly against each other but still cautious. He can feel John’s bare arms against his, and the sparks continue to fly.

Finch decides he doesn’t mind the heat so much.

**

The first time Reese makes love to him is on a crisp autumn morning. A chill is in the air but the trees near his favourite tea stand are bursting in oranges and reds, and it makes Finch smile. He orders his tea, then feels an arm snake around his waist as a familiar voice orders a coffee from behind him. He is not used to public displays of affection yet finds he wants more, finds that he genuinely doesn’t care anymore. And that surprises him. He allows John to pull their bodies together and he rests against him until their hot drinks are ready, relishing in their closeness.

They walk together, step-by-step, and soon find themselves near Reese’s apartment. He invites Finch up on the pretext of having a late breakfast, but their drinks are long finished by the time they get upstairs and the bed looms large on the left side of the loft. It is the proverbial elephant in the room.

“Harold, I…” John starts, but Finch puts a finger to his lips to quiet him. Then he leans in and replaces his finger with his lips, and they both know where this is going. Step-by-step, just like the past few months. Finch’s fingers are all thumbs as he undoes John’s shirt buttons, and John can’t seem to decide where to put his hands now that he _can_ put his hands places, and it is gloriously awkward and so very, very right.

Finch decides he doesn’t mind coffee so much.

**  
The first time Reese tells him he loves him is on a cold winter’s evening. They are at Finch’s apartment, and Finch is wrapped up in a blanket with a hot cup of TheraFlu nestled in his hands. It tastes disgusting, and Finch is grateful for his blocked nose. The fire crackles in the fireplace in front of him, and he sinks deeper into the couch he’s sitting on.

Being sick stinks. Being sick with John Reese as a partner is like making lemonade out of lemons. Finch has been pampered and taken care of like nothing else. A pillow here. A box of Kleenex there. Warm soup and slippers. The best part is not needing a hot water bottle because of course he has John for that. John slips onto the couch next to him and puts his hand on Finch’s leg as they contemplate the fire together.

“Thank you, John,” Finch says.

“For what?” John asks, snuggling in closer as Finch shares the blanket with him.

“For taking such good care of me. For caring for me.” Finch sets the mug of TheraFlu aside and rests his head on John’s shoulder. He realizes he feels something he hasn’t felt in a long time. He feels content.

“I love you, Harold,” John says quietly, matter-of-factly. Heartfelt.

“I love you too,” Finch whispers against his neck.

Finch decides he doesn’t mind being sick so much.

**


End file.
